On Dichotomy

As artists, our perceptions of ourselves are vitally important pieces of the puzzling creative process. Much human thought is dedicated to the slightly narcissistic subject of a self-portrait, as it should be, for without our vociferous little egos we would not be gloriously human. My own self-exploration is a never-ending contest of wills, like so many other dynamic humans who have come before, in which one of me is consumed by the mundane identity of being ordinary, and the other is a flaming riot of extreme rarity guzzling the very air in the immediate vicinity, like loosened wildfire.

            When under the influence of the ordinary half of my personality, the artistic process I employ is a sad, entry-level drone operating at a low level of disconnect, an apathetic form of autopilot. Most often, this state is encouraged by real-world deadlines, disinterest in a certain subject matter, and crippling fear of failure. I think it is prudent to read ‘failure’ as ‘mediocrity’, because I must be as honest as I can be on the subject of myself. I hate to lose. Let me clarify that I am not referring to being in competition with others of my species; I am alluding to the ongoing duel between my dual personalities. It is not a coincidence that the theme of competition with oneself is a cultural axiom; it is a foundation stone in the definition of humanity. From this point of view, I am not unique. Every human on earth has, at some point, had the same fear of failure and mediocrity, the same feeling that we are interchangeable and not as worthy as we would like to believe. This feeling captures me, hangs me up by my toes and leaves me in the maelstrom wailing ineffectually, while I chip away at a piece of art, sculpture or two-dimensional painting, a melody, a piece of myself in tangible form, hoping to uncover an aspect of my own enigmatic soul that isn’t completely superfluous. In this mode of creation, I am searching for something unnamed, and it is nearly impossible for me to genuinely like what I produce. I hardly ever find what it is I am determined to uncover in a timely manner. However, I find that this process almost always leads to my own brand of divine madness, in a meandering, aimless, unpredictable kind of way.

            I have found that I cannot have one without the other, but mediocrity must come before the spark of ingenuity, or I speculate I would not fully appreciate the moment as it should be.  There I am, in my lady cave, underneath the house and chilled by several tons of dirt surrounding the concrete block walls, burdened by the feelings of inadequacy belligerently staring out at me from a blank page or a gesso’ed canvas, when it hits me solidly in the face. In the tiny space between moments, my hands are flying on wild atmospheric thermals, numb with disconnection from my spinning, singing brain, and as I work, parts of me coalesce into a whole I can jive with. It is a firestorm of activity born from a spark of uncommon clarity in a world distilled by doubt and reticence, and soon I am standing back from the piece, be it lyrics for a song scrawled across a page or stiff paper cut and glued and warped into a meaningful shape, that pleases me. This little bit before me, this little reflection of myself is someone I can understand; she may be a bit egotistical, whimsical, forgetful, blunt, but the negatives are harmonized by the genuine, sunny, empathic positives that hold up the other end of this precariously balancing human. I am simultaneously a curving, bellowing piece of sickly green and mad violet glowing against a backdrop of whispering, placid, dull red brick, enveloped by countless others who share the space, each a paradox in their own right.